The Pen Is Mighty
by literalspoon
Summary: Here's the dealio: The bad guys have won. The hero is dead. Your best friend's gone sava... he's seriously messed up. The city's going to hell. And that grieving, donut-loving, prized idiot, with a big ol' target on his back? He's got the one thing that could turn the tide. Good bloody luck. [AU in which Nick ate all the blueberries before the final fight. Clawhauser-focused!]
1. Boiler Room Blues

A week into the re–assignment, Officer Benjamin Clawhauser discovered that he really, _really_ hated working in Records.

Chief Bogo didn't say a word when he dumped the stuff on the desk, and for once, Clawhauser wasn't quite brave enough to start a conversation. He knew as well as anyone in the police station that ever since You–Know–What had happened, the buffalo had been near–insufferable. Being in the basement, he'd heard more than he'd seen, but he'd heard more than enough over the last two days – constant pacing, slamming doors, assigning anyone who breathed at him wrong to parking duty.

Maybe he would have said something regardless – for instance, if he had been curious about the mess of paper and plastic Bogo had all but thrown at him. But with an expression like _that_? Clawhauser wouldn't have needed to know the buffalo well to guess what the pile contained. See, what usually came to Records was evidence that needed to be filed. And the Chief had this wide–eyed, twitchy, hair–trigger–temper–look about him – or at least, Clawhauser had never seen nostrils flaring quite so fast before, and was definitely not that great at running.

All in all, not a good time to ask if Bogo had gotten the new update to the Gazelle app.

After the Chief had made an excellent attempt to remove the door from its hinges, the overweight cheetah steeled himself and made _sure_ the stuff left behind was as bad as he figured it was. Maybe Bogo was just really unhappy about one of Gazelle's television interviews. Or her latest breakup – she ditched someone every other week, after all. Or maybe they had closed the donut shop, and the Chief was being angry on Clawhauser's behalf, since Clawhauser made a point of never being angry when on duty.

But no. On top of the heap were… well, the crime–scene photos. Under those were the autopsy results, then the photos of the autopsy results, then the results of the crime–scene investigation, then some weird interview attempt that ended about when whichever idiot officer remembered Nick couldn't do normal languages any more. And _then_ all these other documents, some forty pages about… well. It. The You–Know–What. Clawhauser guessed he was supposed to look at them without losing half his considerable appetite, and wondered if he might be fired over that detail.

The cheetah pawed idly through the papers, hoping to put off reading all this awful stuff in order to verify that (a) everything was Correct and In Order, and (b) he was Definitely Not Going To Have Any Dinner Tonight– hallelujah, a distraction, a little plastic box. Clawhauser pried the lid open, hoping it might be a sympathetic microwaved meal from Chief Bogo. It wasn't warm or brightly coloured – but faced with all those nasty documents, the records officer was determined to take any comfort he could get.

His breath caught in his throat, and he actually had to look away, one paw going to his mouth in a show of horror. Inside that tiny box, each little item neatly bagged, was all that he'd ever see again of his dear fri…

…his…

… _Miss Judy Hopps._

That was all she could be to him, as a police officer working in a police department. A victim – no, _the_ victim of You–Know–What. It was Clawhauser's job to think of her that way, as much as he hated having to be so cold.

The poor little bunny had been murde– the civilian rabbit victim had been killed, three days ago, by a fox friend who had gone savage. Clawhauser sighed, swallowing back bile and definitely not tears at all. He needed to stay focused here. Hopp– _Judy_ , it felt weird to call her that but he had to – anyway, Judy was going to be the last victim of the strange attacks, if he and the Zootopia Police Department had anything to do with it. They might not know what the hell _exactly_ was going on, as Chief Bogo liked to put it, but as Clawhauser liked to think, they were definitely going to get to the bottom of it. Or at least find a solution that didn't involve muzzling and collaring every carnivore in the city, that would be nice.

The cheetah knew exactly what his role in affairs was going to be, too: Doing Whatever Chief Bogo Said. That meant that he was not to really help, certainly not to go roaming the streets looking for a Real Solution. Instead, as Records Officer, he was going to sit in the basement, right next to the somewhat friendly–looking boiler machine, and catalogue what evidence was not either still at the scene or being tested. If Officer Bogo felt that putting numbers on the bags would make everything better, then Clawhauser was going to put numbers on those bags.

He reached for the box once more, and took each item in turn, holding it in his paws as though he might be able to feel her pulse through the plastic. There were some scraps of bloodied uniform _(why her),_ a can of unused fox repellent _(why didn't she fight),_ a smashed smartphone _(why didn't she call earlier),_ some kind of bloody rag or handkerchief _(why **her** ),_ an…

 _Whoaaaaa. Half a donut?_

Crushed by the fox leaping on top of Hop– _Judy_ ; soggy with blood and sweat – still not enough to throw Clawhauser off. He knew a fantastically delicious combination of fat, sugar, glaze, and sprinkles when he saw one. That was most definitely half a donut, and when he opened the bag to check the smell – yes, caramel! A personal favourite, so much so that he felt sad to have to throw it out after he'd photographed it. Judy must have had wonderful taste in baked goods.

Then he remembered: _He_ had given her that. He'd had the whole thing, and was about to eat it, but Hopps (since she was an officer at the time, Clawhauser figured he could call her that when remembering the scene) looked like she was in need of some sugary comfort. She'd had a long, tiring day at work, and gotten into some sort of argument with the Chief, _and_ now there was something about losing her job in forty-eight hours if she didn't achieve the utterly impossible. Clawhauser had gotten sprinkles all over her trying to break the donut while she pawed over the case–file for Emmitt Otterton, and she'd scowled, nudging at his shoulder every time another hit the paper, her fur, or the floor. But at the time, he'd figured it was all worth it. Sharing the joy of donuts with a sad friend was absolutely worth the mess. Always.

It only worked if the sad friend actually _ate_ the donut, though. Hopps had certainly torn out of the office when she saw that photograph, fast enough that Clawhauser figured she'd gotten her sugar hit. Even being half a donut, it was quite big for a rabbit her size to have eaten. Of course, he'd thought nothing of it at the time, but now, staring at the thing in the plastic bag, he could only assume that far from scoffing the thing, Hopps must have put the donut away for later. With all the excitement, she must have constantly been in too much of a hurry for donuts (a near-impossibility for a cheetah like him, but Bunnies Were Different).

He wondered if she'd planned on eating the thing later, or if she'd simply done it to make him smile and back off. One thing was for sure: That rabbit would never get the chance to eat it now.

Speaking of hurrying, Hopps had also been in too much of a hurry to say goodbye. Hell – several times she'd come back past the reception desk, and she'd always at least waved to Clawhauser. But she'd never actually said _goodbye_. A wave at most was all the warning he got, before she would rush off. The receptionist had always figured it was a sign they would meet again, so Hopps could just say an utterly fantastic goodbye later, when it was _really_ time for them to part ways. Even when she'd caught Clawhauser moving to Records, and he had figured all hope was lost for his social life at work, she hadn't said goodbye.

Maybe if he said it now, things would feel a little easier.

"Bye, Hopps. Judy, I mean. Whoever. Y–you're gonna hate me for saying this, but you were a cute bunny, on top of being smart and nice and friendly and – everything, I guess. And we'll make sure you're the last that… You know. Yeah. And you were really, really good. A– a hero and stuff. And Gazelle might even be comin' to sing at your funeral. So. Um, I guess that'd be nice. You liked Gazelle, right? Everyone likes Gazelle."

He waited.

"…Everyone still likes you, too. Bye, Hopps."

The donut didn't dignify any of the improvised obituary with a response. Clawhauser tossed it in the bin, and started looking for a… goodbye souvenir, for lack of a better word. Something that he could pretend Judy had left him as a goodbye, and maybe if he pretended enough, he'd believe it. He only had one chance, so he took care to get the specifics right. It couldn't be something broken, bloody, or anything that Bogo might think of as useful to the case. It had to be something small, that he could slip into his pocket and under the radar – something that would remind him of Hopps or Judy or whoever – something nice and vaguely comforting – something– _ah!_

A novelty carrot pen. A tiny, bright, cheerful thing, almost lost in his giant pawpad. The battery case had come off, and the batteries were nowhere in sight, but otherwise it looked relatively fine. Clawhauser took it out of its little plastic packet, and – oh gosh, it even smelled of her _and_ him _and_ donuts! Faintly, since they had been reading the big nothing that was Emmett Otterton's case two weeks back, when the whole mess had just been getting started. But it still smelled of them.

Of course, it seemed a little sterotypical of Hopps to carry something like that around, and it was a _lot_ sterotypical of him to be remembering a bunny with a carrot–related item. And even if Clawhauser seriously doubted a pen could be at all of use in a witnessed murder case, it had still been delivered to Records. He doubted she'd have approved of him taking it, if Hopps had been here. She would have said it might still be important, and he ought to be less close–minded, and then he'd have apologized up the wazoo, and then… but… _but… but she's…_

But _whatever_ , the pen reminded Clawhauser of Hopps, and the boiler room had no cameras. The cheetah's only problem was not sobbing until after he walked out of the building, and even that wasn't much of an issue. Most would have just assumed that he was sad about having to number the little bags of Judy, which to Clawhauser was as messed up as the phrasing made things sound. Bogo was the only one in the office who might have suspected otherwise, but (a) he was distracted, and (b) he would have trusted Clawhauser to be doing the right thing, even if the cheetah had been wearing a balaclava and saying things about robbing an art gallery.

He turned the pen over, then nodded, his mind made up. He'd already gotten pawprints on it by taking it out of the bag, and a pen couldn't possibly be important here, and the carrot would look okay on his windowsill, and if he found a replacement battery case and batteries, then maybe he could pretend that was a metaphor for fixing the hole that dumb bunny had left behind, and if the carrot lit up or something when he turned it on, that could be a metaphor for hope's light, which was a metaphor in itself, and more metaphors were always a good thing, and– _and then what?_

 _What am I supposed to do without you around? I'm a big, bad predator, **and** a donut–loving fat cop..._

The cheetah shook his head, stuffing the pen into a breast pocket before he could think about Hopps any further. She wasn't going to come back, and if he kept on procrastinating, he wasn't going to get paid. Right now, he had to put numbers on the bags, then write down the numbers in a big file, and catalogue it all. That was Clawhauser's new job, as much as he hated it and as much as he missed her.

But he would definitely get that pen fixed, later.

And he would definitely say goodbye properly, later.

* * *

"What do you _mean,_ seasonal?! Just set up a hothouse!"

Mayor Bellwether was not pleased. Her lab had been blown up – a literal trainwreck (ohhhh, how she had _hurt_ the ram who made that joke), and her last dose of Night Howler serum had been used on that awful low–life predator. Sure, that rabbit had been done away with, but that in itself was not necessarily good. Judy, with her little slip–ups and her can of fox repellant, had been excellent in frightening the media; it was unfortunate that she'd had to be killed so early into the campaign.

Worse still, there could be no attacks for the next few days. Which was a real shame, since the next target was supposed to be the boldest yet. A strong, fast cheetah in the middle of the city could cause a lot of damage, but better yet, this wasn't just any strong, fast cheetah. This one would be wearing a police uniform, and ordering his favourite caramel donuts from a rabbit bakery at exactly five–thirty in the afternoon! There would be so, so many customers dead before the on–duty officers showed up.

"I gave you the resources, and I don't care about the costs! I'm the mayor now. I can have anything I want, did you forget? And right now, I want that serum! _Tomorrow!_ "

The phone chattered something indignant about Sundays, and she scowled. Rams were so stupid, sometimes. Didn't they get it? The attack was going to be _good,_ but she needed it to happen while the killer was still remembered as the face of the police department. Bogo had caved to pressure and reassigned the receptionist a week ago, but he might have already made a mistake with that stupid cheetah that would cost him the ZPD's independence. If Bellwether could capitalize on that in time, she could completely rule Zootopia.

"Two days, Wooley! _Get it done!_ "

The mayor hung up, tapping her hooves on the desk and trying to quash her frustrations by fantasizing about her latest showpiece. Benjamin Clawhauser – ahhh, the name alone made her want to laugh! It really was a brilliant move. So many prey animals still thought that big oaf was nice. Sweet. Trustworthy, like they could come to him with their problems at the front desk, and no matter what, he would be able to give an answer or point them in some direction or other. What she'd give for a picture of Bogo's face when he saw his own co–worker, still in uniform…

Bellwether picked up the phone once more.

"O–oh! Um, hello, is this Two Moons Investigation Services? Yes, M–maaaaayor Bellwether here. Um, I would like to hire a little surveillance for tomorrow… It's very important, all these predatory attacks and… Well, do I get a little priority? B–being a prey animal, I can't help but be worried…"

That's right, she _was_ the mayor now.

She could have anything she wanted.

* * *

 **A/N:** Is this even a fandom-? I hope so, the world's been pretty fun to write so far. If there's a fandom, then I don't know anyone in it, but I'd love to meet you guys! Make some noise?

Fun fact - the next planned serum target in the film is a cheetah, and a little commentary is heard along the lines of "Aren't cheetahs fast?", "Don't worry, I can hit him" when Judy and Nick are listening in the abandoned train-turned-lab. Of course, it was never confirmed to be Clawhauser, but wouldn't it be interesting?


	2. Donut Dilemma

For the first time in years, Clawhauser did not buy twelve caramel donuts on the way from work.

Or thirteen caramel donuts.

Or eleven caramel donuts.

Or even _one_ caramel donut.

Yes, the cheetah walked into his very favourite shop, and yes, he hesitated for a full minute. Then another. Then two, then three, then he lost count and didn't particularly mind. He hadn't planned on any of that, of course, but there he was; pacing back and forth in front of the cabinet, gesturing wildly whenever some other customer had paid and left ("Oh, no, I'm just _browsing!_ You, you go…"), tail flicking back and forth. Half an hour crept by, with the cheetah being given increasingly strange looks by the other fine donut connoisseurs, and pretending that he couldn't hear the whispers.

( _Oh! Sweetie, don't stare, or look the pred in the eyes. He might…)_

 _(H–he's not, like, goin' savage or somethin'… right…)_

 _(Aren't the cops supposed to be working overtime, because…)_

 _(Bet he's gonna be eating waaaaaay overtime…)_

 _(Sweetie, what did I say? You mustn't stare…)_

Clawhauser made a mental note to buy some earplugs later.

Abusive minority _aside,_ the regulars seemed confused, the prey animals on edge, and the rest of the civilians vaguely annoyed, but there was little any of them could do about the cheetah's presence. As long as he ignored the whispering, no–one would moved a finger or claw to stop him from pacing, another half hour slipping by all too easily.

He felt more surprised about that than he should have. After all, Clawhauser was still in full uniform, and everyone knew he was a police officer who _always_ did the right thing. He might just be investigating something, or holding some sort of stakeout. If that was the case, then predator or not, no–one was interested in questioning his behaviour.

…Alternatively, he might be feeling very conflicted over donut flavours right now. But no–one could prove that.

"Ben, _Ben!_ Whatever's the matter?" Agatha Fluffity was the first to ask, rushing out of the kitchen with an apron dusted in icing sugar and cinnamon. She hopped up onto the countertop so they could be at eye–level with each other, and waited with hands on her hips, utterly unafraid. "Did Cotton move the caramel donuts again?"

"Nonononono! That's not it at all, Missus Fluffity." Looking at the aging founder of the bakery, Clawhauser felt a deep urge to explain everything, right there in the crowded little shop. There was a reason she hadn't shrunk back from him, even with the current turmoil. This particular bunny had known him ever since he was just a kitten, hopping about and pointing at the donuts iced in the colour of his fur. Everything else in Zootopia changed, but never Agatha Fluffity and her delicious donuts; she and her shop had become a steadying rock for Clawhauser.

The cheetah shuffled his feet, suddenly not wanting to admit that he wanted to change the donut routine, even a little. Would she be angry? Would he lose that last, lingering, lovely place of security in Zootopia? Clawhauser's tail writhed and twisted, mimicking what he was currently doing with his clasped, wringing paws. "Well, uh. You see. I–it's just…"

The old rabbit smiled at him, adjusting her enormous spectacles. "Ohohoho! Do you only have the money for eleven and a half? I remember when you came here, a few years ago, and – my goodness, weren't you embarrassed?"

Clawhauser remembered, all right; his face felt hot just thinking about such a dreadful moment. Agatha gestured theatrically, arms spread wide. "But it was quite all right! The building didn't fall down, did it? You just paid for twelve and a half donuts the next day. Auntie Fluffity _always_ looks after her best customers, Ben!"

Then, to a moose that stood in a corner of the shop, notepad out and pen raised: "There, five stars in customer service."

He giggled, but – no, that wasn't it, either. The fact of the matter was that Clawhauser couldn't buy any caramel donuts now, possibly not _ever._ Right now, that flavour was still one–hundred–percent related to Hopps, a matter that felt as heavy on his mind as the pen in his pocket. He didn't want to find out how heavy even one caramel donut might feel in his stomach.

The cheetah bit his lip, glanced about, then leaned close to Agatha, keeping his voice low and confidential. "Sorry, but I'm, ah, just browsing. If you know what I mean." The translation went something like this: _I may or may not be having a crisis over the Choosing of the Caramel Donut's Successor, assistance requested. Over and out._

Luckily, the rabbit seemed to understand. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his paunch until Clawhauser realized that somewhere in the pacing, his shirt had slid up. He tucked it back in, feeling a pang of shame, but Agatha only shook her head in commiseration. "Well! I should have something to hit the spot instead. I've served you for so many years… hm, let's see."

She winked, then backflipped off the counter, landing on the serving side of the cabinet. Clawhauser tried to follow her movements as she scampered behind the glass, eyes wide and tail stiff. Back and forth she went, and back and forth he stumbled, his head low to the ground and constant apologies bubbling from his lungs. If anyone grumbled, he flashed his police badge and kept moving.

Sure, this wasn't part of his _job._ He was cheating a little here; maybe even cheetah–ing, if he'd been feeling a little more lighthearted about affairs. But to Clawhauser, knowing the nature of the new Agatha–Approved Perfect Donut as soon as possible was one of the most important tasks in the world. It might even be as important as the cheetah's number–one dream: Personally helping Chief Bogo to catch a dangerous criminal.

"Are you ready for the healthiest donut ever made, Ben? Just a few weeks of the Green Energy, and you'll be able to go back to caramel donuts before you know it!"

 _Healthy?_

Clawhauser was naturally suspicious of anything 'healthy', especially so when the item was green. That said, he still trusted Agatha's skills when it came to anything donut related. Even those two giant warning flags together would have been fine if the green was, say – involved neon green icing, slathered on thickly. And if that rabbit had found some way to make delicious green icing healthy, then Clawhauser might have even deemed her a miracle worker.

So for all of two seconds, he put away his fear, and smiled, resting his elbows on the countertop. Then the fear was well and truly back, hitting hard enough that Clawhauser actually hopped back, trying desperately to hide his horror. There before him was a shrunken, withered… item. It was broccoli green, and worse still, carried _nothing_ in the icing department. The topping attempt was some kind of awful, sticky–looking glaze, with little unappetizing nuts scattered on top.

Agatha rested one plastic–gloved paw upon her prize, looking absolutely overjoyed. "This! Is an Auntie Fluffity vegetable special – yes, I have a secret menu. Write that down, Joseph." Clawhauser shuddered at the word ' _vegetable'_. Maybe it was healthy for rabbits, but vegetables were something his gut could barely handle.

Then again, Clawhauser couldn't protest right there, in the middle of a shop full of herbivores. What was he supposed to say? Oh, I'm so sorry, I'd really rather eat you? Even if the cheetah didn't use those exact words, he knew that's what the whisperers would decide he'd said. So, Clawhauser stared sadly at the 'donut', and gestured at the shopkeeper to go on. "It looks… uh. What's in it?"

"Spinach, broccoli, basil, parsley, garlic, walnuts, some egg to hold it together, and of course, a puree of delicious carrots–"

 ** _Carrot!_**

He still needed the batteries and the case for that pen. "Aw, fiddlesticks!" Clawhauser's paws flew to his pockets, and his eyes darted towards the door, or at least that two centimeters of doorway not containing giant muscled wolf. He couldn't afford to be late for Gazelle's live television performance, even if it was only a repeat of Friday night's show. And he _definitely_ didn't like the idea of walking home at night with all this prejudice about. What if someone didn't see his police uniform in the dark, and–

"I'm sorry? Ben?"

Clawhauser whirled back on the not–donut, and tried to shake too much. There was no way he wanted to offend the one unchanging figure in his life, so he babbled and tried to smooth things over as quickly as possible. "Uh, uh, _well that's super–duper nice of you_ , Missus Fluffity, but, um, I was just thinking of a slightly different flavour. From caramel, you see, but, oh, goodness, would you look at the time. I guess I'll just have to t–take… take…"

He hesitated a moment longer, unable to force out the dratted word. It was just too hard, and – you know what, Clawhauser was just really, really tired. Tired of the way that antelope over there flinched whenever he so much as twitched. Tired of the whole donut problem. Tired of stupid Bogo storming around, yelling, tired of Judy being gone, and– tired of doing nothing, that was it. Tired of never making up his mind, even when it came to something as small and insignificant as a non–caramel donut.

"… _strawberry!_ Yep, I'm going to try a strawberry donut today. Or, you know. Twelve." He leaned back over the counter, popped the 'donut' in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and gave the rabbit a bright, cheery smile. It was a real effort to ignore the horrific taste, but it was still leagues better than his mum's cooking, and the bunny looked so eager to see what he thought. Faced with something so cute, he couldn't exactly gag, could he now?

He gulped again, then patted his stomach. "Mm–hmm! Now it's eleven strawberry donuts, because you're _right_ , you lovely, kind bunny! I've absolutely, definitely, fantastically, experiencedly got to do my best on the job, and a Green Power donut will totally, certainly, hundred–percentedly help!" Clawhauser's gut was already disagreeing with that last statement, but he resisted the urge to clutch his belly. He needed to get out of that shop.

"A testimonial for Green Power? Oh, Ben! That's so sweet of you. Smile!" Quick as – well, a cheetah – Agatha kissed him on the cheek and whirled him about to face the bored moose.

"Anytime, missus!"

 _Never again_ , he vowed, swaying a little as she pressed her cheek to his and struck a pose. Yep, eating that not–donut had been a major, major mistake. There was no sweet drink to wash the ghastly aftertaste from his mouth, and his frantic licking at the inside of his mouth was doing nowhere near as much as he wished for. Some organ or other had launched into warm–ups for a world record somersault attempt, and Clawhause was fairly sure it wasn't supposed to do that.

The camera clicked, and the moose went back to scribbling at his notepad. "Hm. Cheetah, could you repeat the last few lines?"

"Go on, Ben. It'll help me, honest." Passing him a strawberry donut, she got to work boxing up the rest. Clawhauser waved the item with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster up; which turned out to be so much, he nearly lost the delicious little ring to the wall.

"I've absolutely, definitely, experiencedly – wait, no. I've absolutely, definitely, _fantastically,_ experiencedly…"

* * *

 _"So, I've just said goodbye to Mum and Dad. I don't think I'll have much time to write when I'm, you know, arresting big criminals and everything, sooooo this'll have to be my diary from now on. And maybe a secret recorder of cool police things. You never know, right?"_

Hopps – Judy – _whoever –_ she spoke to him, that night. Clawhauser sat on the edge of his hammock, nursing an aching stomach and a broken heart. Her voice lilted with the rise and fall of his chest, synced with his sobs. She sounded so happy, even when she was saying things that she didn't expect anyone else to hear. She sounded like she was genuinely looking forwards to the days ahead, working as a police officer.

That bunny's gonna be eaten alive, Clawhauser remembered muttering to himself the day Hopps had rushed up to the reception desk. He'd wished hell on her; worse, assumed it.

 _"Anyway – I mean, this thing has tons of memory, but I think it'll be best if I keep things quick, so I can fast–forward past this if I need to record something really important in a hurry. I'm on a train now, and I'll be in Zootopia in just, mmn – four hours and thirty–thee minutes! Oh, and twenty two seconds. That's a lot of time, but I think it'll be worth it."_

A little clarification here: Hopps' voice wasn't a ghost, and Clawhauser was pretty sure he wasn't high (though then again, that's what someone high might say). As it turned out, the little carrot pen could work without a back–case, so long as it had two double–R batteries. It didn't light up, but somehow made up for this shortcoming with something even better. At first, the player had just screamed, but Clawhauser had, with the aid of a magnifying glass, held the rewind button down for some fifteen minutes while he choked down strawberry donuts.

The cheap, tacky–looking thing was actually a pretty good quality audio recorder, though it didn't have much in the way of good speakers. Hopps' voice sounded tinny, and something resembling engine noise threatened to drown her out every now and then. Maybe Clawhauser could do something with the headphones jack tomorrow – perhaps Radihog Hut was still having a sale on speakers – but for now, the cheetah was just glad/deeply unhappy that he could hear every word.

 _"First day on the job's tomorrow, so I'm going to check out the flat and have a walk around the city. Gotta know where I'll be patrolling! Chief Bogo has to like prepared officers."_

Clawhauser sighed and rolled over in the hammock, wistful for multiple obvious reasons. He wished she was back, and he wished he'd been that enthusiastic that first day. The bunny's words took him right back to when he'd actually been a patrolling officer, before Chief Bogo had taken pity on the no–donut diet and given him the receptionist job.

 _"First stop tomorrow will have to be the reception desk!"_ Judy decided, as though she was reading Clawhauser's mind. He shivered, closing his eyes and trying to hold back the waterworks.

Gosh, he missed the receptionist job. Why couldn't he have it back?

 _"…really excited! Although, Mum said the receptionist's a, you know. There's not many small prey animals like me in the ZPD, you know? So, they had to hire – oh yeah, I **am** on a train, haha! Oops, guess that might be an issue. I'll have to record in my room from now on. Well, anyway. This is Officer Extraordinaire, Judy Hopps, signing off. Over and out!"_

Clawhauser turned off the pen quickly enough, but he couldn't turn off his thoughts for hours afterwards.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm not that familiar with , but I don't think I can respond to guest reviews unless it's... well, here. So!

Loyal-RoyalPanda - Knowing me, this story will be updating in bursts, as inspiration hits; with that said, you can probably expect once-or-twice-a-weekend updates for a while. I've not planned the whole thing out, just toying with these characters for the first time and seeing what happens! Hope you enjoy however things play out.


	3. Night Navigation

According to Clawhauser's watch, the creaking started at two in the morning.

According to Clawhauser's watch, it was now three–thirty in the morning.

According to Clawhauser's _headache_ , things hadn't let up.

 _K–k–crrrreeeerrrrrr….k._

He sighed in between bursts of the dreaded noises, curling about his (though really, _her_ ) precious carrot in an effort to try and rest anyway. Even before the creaking started, he'd been facing a sleep deficit. Of _course_ it hadn't been a great idea, but with all the upset and fuss yesterday, the cheetah wound up staying a good hour past his usual bedtime to slurp his protein shake, eat a little fish, and cram the batteries into the pen. If he let the weird noises get to him, he would definitely lose more sleep – sleep he couldn't afford to lose. Chief Bogo was attentive, and Clawhauser terrible at hiding any sort of fatigue. He just couldn't help it; cheetahs were _born_ to rest and yawn and laze around.

With all the chaos back at the office, the buffalo might not notice the results of Clawhauser missing an hour. But knowing that Bogo would likely be in an awfully _'anyone who looks at me funny gets meter maid duty'_ sort of mood… well, missing two hours was pushing his luck. Three or four hours would be just about suicidal. Turning over, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and hoped against hope that the stupid creaking noise would stop.

 _eeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEE **EEEERRRR**_ **RRRKKKKKK _–_**

The cheetah fluffed up in fright at the resulting screech, mumbling a curse under his breath. Of _course_ the creaking only got worse when Clawhauser moved; he was lying in a hammock, which attached to the walls, which were already creaking.

 _krrrrrrrrreeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiick–c–c._

That was a chord, somehow. Not a nice one; a gaggle of notes that managed to sound even worse than the fifth graders' choir. It made Clawhauser wince just recalling that – the infamous fifth graders' choir, the one that had performed at that fateful assembly, weeks ago, when the sky was blue and there was even a rabbit police officer graduating onstage, and dreadful singing aside, everything was perfe– _don't think about it, oh god, you're thinking about it, you **idiot** – _

_kcrrrrrrktckcktckckrrrrrrkkckcrrrrrr._

–it was a horrible noise, sent shivers all the way to the tip of Clawhauser's tail, made him want to think about things he shouldn't think about. He distracted himself with the usual rant: This was the _true_ downside to having a high amount of ventilation, necessary as it was to not asphyxiate under the permanent heat of Sahara Square. The cheetah could live with the regular bug invasions and the need for a canvas sheet during a freak thunderstorm, but it was the wind that really annoyed him. It could tear through structures, regardless of the size or make, and the end result was that awful creaking.

Which reminded him of _no way, no thanks_. The only other solution to the heat/air/carbon dioxide problem the cheetah knew of was to have air conditioning installed, and he toyed with the idea for a few minutes, just to keep his mind off thing. But – well, it was expensive to install, expensive to run. Astronomically so if he wanted his house to not sound like a jet taking off, and not be shaken out of his hammock every night. Either way, it was well out of his budget…

 _kerrrrrk. –k–rrrriiieeeerrrrrk._

…speaking of hammocks and shaking, Clawhauser's mind babbled to itself, wasn't it odd that the hammock didn't move with most of the sounds? The walls were usually the culprits of such noises. Clawhauser's hammock was attached to the walls – logic said that if the walls were making these noises, he should have felt the vibrations through the ropes and fabric. If he wasn't feeling them, which he wasn't for the first time in months, then guess what, _it wasn't the walls that were making weird noises._ What an interesting little fact: He might well have a Mysterious Creaky Window or Mysterious Creaky Door on his paws, even though he'd never had that problem before.

The cheetah tried to ignore the little paranoid voice telling him that maybe, just maybe, someone might have _opened_ a door or window for some reason. He needed to rest, not worry about that sort of stuff. Yeah, Clawhauser had probably just left a window a little ajar, or maybe the wind had blown his door open. So he turned over one last time, left the creaking to its own devices, and hoped the annoying noise would soon let him get some sleep. The cheetah lay as still as he could, and was just starting to doze off–

–heard it, the _clunk_ , the tell–tale sound of someone or something hitting the tight–packed dirt floor. For a long, long moment, he could pretend that the nasty old wind had just blown some ornament or other down from its perch. The weird pitter–patter that followed was just something rolling unevenly thanks to an odd shape, or maybe the item in question was a vase, and when Clawhauser woke up in the morning, there would be rose petals scattered across every surface. And so, when he caught the soft _thmp_ and the _omifkinggd_ of someone stubbing their toe and being very upset about it, he opened his eyes almost too late.

Clawhauser didn't have the best night–vision around, but he didn't exactly need to. Even a skunk could have seen what was wrong: Strutting across the floor was a figure, and it was making zero effort to hide itself. He could guess why. Though it was walking on two legs, the animal looked very childlike in terms of the height, and on closer inspection, it was in the proportions as well. His uninvited guest looked to be shorter than the dressing table it was now trying to rifle through. And its giant eyes were almost the size of its body, never mind the ears–

–something glinted–

 _–oh **no** –_

The creature's head shot up, gaze searching, and Clawhauser made a truly obnoxious snoring noise, shuffling about as though he'd not sat up or gasped or anything else. If this really was a sleepwalking kit, then playing dead wouldn't matter. The little one would eventually fall asleep in here, and the cheetah could take him or her home. If he was right, and there was something as adult in those big eyes as the knife in those paws had implied, then Clawhauser needed to play dead. And he needed to play dead well, really well – or he might not be _playing_ dead any more.

The last thought was terrifying, almost as bad as the realisation that whoever was in his house had not gone back to rummaging through the drawer. Had they not bought the act? Were they considering clambering up to his hammock and– _oh dear goodness, don't think about that! Just lie still._

Clawhauser started to think about the next move when he heard the irritated click of a tongue, then the _klkiklik_ of a blade being jammed into the lock on his dear mum's dresser. There was no way he could get out of the hut without being noticed by his 'guest'. It was possible that he could get the jump on the creature, but he needed to actually land on top of it, not damage the little furniture he had, not kill the tiny thing with his enormous weight. Oh, and while he was waiting for the right opportunity, he absolutely couldn't caught looking like he was awake. That would give the fox – or possibly baby elephant – a chance to escape.

Or, you know, come right up here and stab him. Neither option was appealing.

 _Ghk… What would Gazelle do?_

Lie still and quiet? Take a selfie with the culprit? Try to talk the burglar into being a better sort of fan? Offer herself as a very sexy hostage, then be all sneaky and turn the tables when it was least expected of her? Tweet wildly about it afterwards? Phone in one of those awesome tiger dancers? Call the ZPD and demand a certain totally heroic cheetah appear to save her? Clawhauser wasn't sure, but none of those ideas seemed like they'd work for him. (That last one would make an incredible fanfiction, though. He would definitely have to write it at some point.)

 _...Aaaaall righty, no banana. What would the Chief do?_

Slowly, he opened one eye, sizing up the situation. The locked drawer was now wide open, and the fox/armed baby elephant was up to the tail in a mess of paperclips, paper, blu–tak, glue sticks, and all manner of other things that Clawhauser had thoughtlessly stuffed inside. It was flinging items in every direction, and going off the growls, was (a) getting angrier and angrier, and (b) definitely not a baby elephant. Every now and then, it would whirl – but the cheetah had good blinking reflexes, and when needed, an even better snore. Not exactly the sort of skills he'd attribute to ninjas, or hell, the police service, but hey – they worked for him.

Could he make the jump from the hammock to the dressing table, as much as he didn't want to claw up such a nice bit of furniture? Chief Bogo said yes, he could and absolutely should. Clawhauser's old training said yes to doing that as well, but then again, that _also_ said he should never eat a single donut, and therefore couldn't be considered good advice. So, things boiled down to what Chief Bogo would do, versus what every last muscle in Clawhauser's body screamed he shouldn't do. The cheetah, he'd read, was built for speed, not fighting – and that was an _athletic_ cheetah, strong and healthy. Not an overweight blob like himself. He might not even be able to make that sort of jump.

 _So that's what… one vote for attacking this guy, versus five hundred against? Nope, not doing that. I can't. There's no way. Five hundred votes… five hundred–!_

 ** _But._**

 _What would Officer Francine do?_

Exactly what Bogo would do. Neutralize the target, charge them with breaking and entering, then drag them back to headquarters or call some on–duty officers to help with that. Two votes against five hundred – it was still completely impossible. He imagined jumping and missing, jumping and breaking the burglar's neck and getting charged, jumping and being impaled on that nasty little knife, jumping and falling and just _failing_ somehow.

 _And what would Officer Fangmeyer do?_

Probably be more of a showoff about it, but exactly the same idea as Bogo and Francine. There would be a dramatic somersault and a howl, but at the end of the silliness, the target would be flat on his face, and the knife would be safely lodged in the wall. There would be handcuffs and a reciting of rights, because Fangmeyer was just a little bit obsessed with the whole police vibe, kept handcuffs within reach twenty–four – seven. What _ever_ , Clawhauser couldn't do anything of the sort!

 _What about Delgato?_

 _And Wolford?_

 _Higgins?_

The tiny fox was reaching the bottom of the drawer. Things were strewn all about the room, and the growling was getting more frustrated. He had to make a move soon, or the burglar was going to either get away, or attack him with the knife because it was in such a bad mood. He _needed_ to do something, and he knew exactly what it was, could sum it up in one word: Jump. But Clawhauser only shivered, even as the votes piled up in his head and time ran out, refusing to jump. He might be a police officer, sure, just like everyone else in the Zootopia Police Department, and everyone else might well do exactly what Bogo would do in this situation, but – come on! He wasn't like them! Clawhauser wasn't big or strong; okay, so big, and bunnies were scared of him, but he was big in _entirely the wrong way–_

 ** _–what would Officer Judy Hopps do?_**

She wasn't big. She wasn't strong. She carried fox repellent around everywhere, and everyone knew bunnies were afraid of foxes anyway. But Clawhauser'd bet his pelt that Hopps would have attacked the fox as quickly as anyone else. Maybe even faster, given how quickly she had chased after that weasel on her second day. If Hopps was in this situation, she would have been afraid, just like he was. But she would have definitely gone for it anyway, even though she wasn't Bogo, and neither was he. That bunny would have jumped, and she'd probably have tried to punch the intruder for good measure.

The intruder hopped out of the drawer, empty–pawed and cursing under its breath. Clawhauser watched it step away from his mother's lovely old dressing table, and vaguely wondered how long it was going to take to clean up such an awful mess. The floor was now covered in screwed-up bits of paper, unbent paperclips, and what looked like enough gluesticks to have made a train carriage out of. Miraculously, the creature didn't trip over anything; three steps took it well back from the precious wood. It stood there for a few seconds, grumbling and shaking its head. The robber clearly hadn't found whatever it was after.

And maybe it was trying to come up with a new plan, but it wasn't about to _get_ the whatever. A few seconds commiserating was all it was allowed – before Officer Benjamin Clawhauser decided that there were most definitely more than five hundred police officers in the world, and lunged.


	4. Camera Capture

Clawhauser did okay with the lunging, and he dropped towards the ground just fine, but actually landing on his target turned out to be a lot harder than he figured it was going to be. As soon as his weight was no longer in the hammock, it sprang upwards – which made the walls let out a warning _crrrrrrkkekkek_. Big ears swiveled, and before Clawhauser could yell anything about stopping in the name of the law, the… the…

… _baby fox in a torn elephant suit?_

That was a really weird thing to see. More importantly, the burglar was rolling out of the way almost as soon as Clawhauser was in the air. And being small, it was _fast_. Even before the cheetah hit the ground face–first, he knew that he had more than likely missed. His only hope was to spreadeagle himself as he fell, yell something vaguely resembling a war-cry, and just kind of hope that maybe one of his paws would catch–

Click.

 _Click?_

 **WHAM!**

"AUUUUUURRRRRGGHHHHHH!" The scream was horrifying enough that had the cheetah not already been lying flat on his face, he definitely would have jumped or fallen over. As it was, he just lay still, trying to ignore the twitching in his gut, the spots in his vision, and the nagging feeling that said he'd thrown his back again. Maybe if he stayed where he was, everything would be okay, somehow. Chief Bogo would find the trouble, the bad guy would get caught, and Benjamin Clawhauser could take a much–needed holiday. The Oasis Springs had been getting okay reviews lately. It would all work out.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! Get off my tail, fatso!" That, for the record, was deepest voice Clawhauser had ever heard, despite years of working with burly police officers . The surprise of it coming out of such a tiny animal rocked him back into the present. This was definitely (and very much _unfortunately_ ), an armed, dangerous adult bad guy that he was trying to arrest. A male one, too; extra–violent.

"Um, I was really hoping that you could just leave me alone–" The cheetah stopped mid–sentence, frowning. "Wait, wait, wait. Your… tail…?"

…And _oh my goodness,_ that wasn't a wriggling and a churning _in_ Clawhauser's gut after all. It was a thrashing and a tugging _under_ it. Benjamin Clawhauser, token flabby donut–loving cop, had actually kind of captured a criminal. He smiled at the thought; he'd never done anything like this before, but man, was it cool. The only difference between this and a Bogo–standard arrest was that–

"Yeah, you heard me. You'd better quit sittin' on my tail, buddy, or I'm gonna cut your fat butt off!"

–oooookay, so there were lots and lots of differences, and most of them weren't good news. The aforementioned criminal was standing over him; unchained, unrepentant, definitely not unconscious, waving a knife. That last thing was a real problem, but the only solutions Clawhauser could think of involved getting up – which made them not _real_ solutions, since then the Bad Guy wouldn't be caught any more.

 _If Chief Bogo deliberately belly–flopped onto a criminal's tail, **then** what would he do? Wait, never mind, that's stupid. He'd never plan that._

 _…What about Gazelle?_

Today was turning out to be weird, and the sun wasn't even up yet.

The fox jabbed at Clawhauser with the knife, coming much too close to his whiskers for comfort. "C'mon, loser, I haven't got all day. Let. Me. Go."

"Nope, nope, nope! This, uh, this – _is a code ten–sixteen!_ I repeat, code ten–sixteen! I need backup, over!"

"Backup? Lemme tell you somethin', _Pussycat Galore._ You don't want backup. You wanna lose, say, a few hundred pounds."

Clawhauser blinked. "Huh? Not that sort of backup. See, I'm in the middle of a crime scene, so I'm supposed to… radio the…"

 _…oh yeeeeeaaaaaah, that's right._

He didn't have a radio, or a convenient nearby Chief to call in. In fact, he hadn't had either of those things for a whole week, ever since his stupid predator species had gotten him kicked from the reception desk. But old habits died very, very hard. Now he looked like a total idiot, and worse still, his captured criminal wasn't about to let any opportunity to mock him slide.

"Ahaha! Donut King, w–were you _seriously_ tryin' to play cops and robbers? Welcome to the real world." The robber strutted close to Clawhauser's face, managing to sound and look surprisingly intimidating given his size, and the elephant onesie. Probably something to do with the very unsettling cackle, or maybe it was the way that the hood on the suit had flipped back, making it look a bit like either he had two heads, or he was actually wearing the skin of a baby elephant.

"No–one's comin' to save you, fatso", he went on. "So, get off my tail sometime in the next eon, I'll take what I'm here for, and then we'll call it quits. Otherwise, this knife's gonna go riiiiight up your nose. Copy that, lardass?" He at tugged his tail for extra emphasis, but 'lardass' cancelled out whatever sympathy the whimper generated.

In fact, Clawhauser caught himself wondering whether or not it was possible to sit harder on someone. "Oh, oh, oh – I'm super–sorry, but I don't think I can do that. I'm putting you under arrest for, uh, admitting to robbery!"

"Just you try!" came a ferocious snarl. "I'll beat your head in, buddy–cop–"

The cheetah was already attacking, one paw moving in a wide arc. If he could just sweep the fox's legs out from under him, then he could drag himself forwards to sit on more of the criminal. Clawhauser had no idea what to do after that (suffocate him into submission? Yell for help? Slide all the way to ZPD headquarters?), though. He hadn't exactly had much training in the art of criminal–sitting, presumably because this was definitely not what to do when faced with a dangerous robber.

 _Think positive, think positive. It's just a start!_

The intruder hopped back, lip curling in a sneer. But his tail was still trapped, and he didn't get far, and better yet, the second swipe got him. It was all thanks to Hopps, too – the pen clutched in his paw gave Clawhauser _just_ enough reach to score a direct hit. Those tiny, delicate knees buckled, there was a tangle of limbs, and the pen went skittering across the floor. Clawhauser was now rolling about, trying to get on top of the tiny fox, there was a weird ache in one shoulder, and his uninvited guest was trying to _choke_ him, talk about rude–

 _"So my first day at the ZPD was, well… how to put this–?"_

"Ah _ah!_ There it is!"

 _Eh–?_

Fast fox; slow cheetah; Clawhauser very nearly didn't grab hold of a leg as it bounded towards its prize. He grimaced and almost let go when it tried to kick him in the head. Even though his criminal was small, the cheetah was already tiring. If the Bad Guy got hold of the knife all over again, there was a very decent chance that Clawhauser would get stabbed.

"Tough luck, fat _caaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!_ Leggo, or I'll beat your head in!" But Clawhauser shook his head, and then he somehow got up, dragging the criminal back across the room. Only one of his arms seemed to be working right now, but maybe he still could chuck the little guy out the window, if he could just pull the fox along a bit faster. Greedy paws dug and scraped at the dirt, the two of them still mere inches from the… the…

… _Not_ the knife.

"Oh. You… you're her… um. Erm."

Clawhauser knew that Hopps had been working with _a_ fox, but hadn't considered that she might be seeing more than one. He'd also never considered that she might not be single. And the look in the little guys' eyes, the way he thrashed and struggled more than ever before, reaching and pawing frantically for that pen – pure desperation.

"So you're her boyfriend", he repeated. Normally, the cheetah have giggled at how goofy that sounded; _a criminal stabby–stab fox dating a good–cop rabbit? Really?_ But then again, this was a desperate guy, who fought hard, and had owned a knife up to about eighteen seconds ago, at which point he had... Oh, it was sticking out of Clawhauser's arm. Somehow, he didn't think that now was a right time to laugh.

The fox went limp in either surprise or resignation, swinging in a slow arc by the tail. "Watch your mouth, fatso. And hand over the pen, while you're at it. I _need_ that thing."

"Well, it's police evidence and all, but sure", the cheetah sighed. With a grunt, he put the fox down, praying that he wouldn't find himself stabbed again as a result of doing so. The knife hadn't gone far in – thank goodness for thick fur – but Clawhauser's arm still really hurt. And the pain was getting to be really, _really_ tiring.

The fox rushed across the floor, grabbed the carrot–pen, and held it close. "Sweet. Dunno how you got this, fatty, but _sweet._ "

"Weeeeeeeell", said Clawhauser, drawing out the word because he was wobbling a little bit, seeing his own blood was really making him queasy, "I so happen to be a cop! Officer Benjamin Clawhauser. You know, the donuts one–? I have a uniform and a badge and everything. I–I'm happy… to drop the breaking and entering charge, since we're all good there, but since… you d–did kind of stab me, that's… assault… code…"

"Wait, so you're _actually–_ " The fox stopped, and his eyes went very, very wide. He said something awful enough to be unprintable.

But thankfully, something which had no need to be printed – since Clawhauser never did hear it.

* * *

"No, I don't care about the warnings – or the advertising. We don't need a slogan, no–one's competing…"

The good mayor was not in such a good mood today. There didn't seem to be a part of Bellwether that could keep _still._ Her hooves tapped, she chewed her lip, and every couple of minutes, she would get up and pace about her office. She couldn't really help it (rams were just so dull to talk to sometimes, kept her going in circles, it was all their stupid fault for being stupid, she needed more intelligent conversation ASAP), but… well, having someone to blame in itself didn't things feel much better. She couldn't very well slap Jesse from across the connection, after all.

Boy though, did Bellwether want to ring up Mister Big, and have his cronies go and slap some sense into Jesse. The more the ram tried to explain himself, the more she was tempted.

"Look. Why would any animal care about the steroids in the mix if _they can't think_ , you buffoon? Do you really believe that a big, bad, savage predator is going to stop mid–pounce and wonder about a healthier option?! I don't think so. Ergo, you can take your campaign and– **_deedle, deedle, deedle_** _–_ arghhhh! You're lucky that I have a call on another line to take care of!"

Bellwether had jumped at the sudden ringing. As retribution, she proceeded to slammed down her mobile so hard, the desk shook, and her whole arm trembled with it. After that little number, it took all her strength to pick up the big, clunky office phone, let alone smile, remember to stammer lots, and press the flashing number three. She was definitely not in the mood for pretending she cared about fundraisers for some school's swimming carnival (seriously, what a load of _balderdash_ ).

"Um, th–this is the Mayor speaking. I h–hope this phone working... um, I've had a little trouble with the lines lately, because of the new secretary and new everything else?"

 _And if you're that stupid 'predator welfare' lobbyist lot, then this phone is most definitely not working._

A pause.

"Oh! T–Two Moons Investigation Services? Yes, I would love to hire you for, baaaah, just a few more days. I am still a little w–worried. Or rather, a lot worried… _Oh?"_

A moment of silence, then a shaky explanation, during which Bellwether realized that her ' _oh'_ had likely sounded far too hopeful. After all, Here she was, talking to a couple of dumb wolves who had just discovered Very Bad News for their nasty predator kind. The sheep was supposed to be horrified, sympathetic. Not hopeful; certainly not overjoyed. If she wasn't more careful, the two investigators might even work out that she was grinning on the other end of the phone.

" _Oh!_ " she tried again, making her voice quaver as much as possible. "Well, that's, um. Very interesting. Yes, I would love to see… um, o–once I have prepared myself, of course. I suppose it's very scary!"

Two minutes later, the attachment had loaded, and Bellwether was struggling not to cackle. She hadn't even given Clawhauser the serum yet, and already she had some truly glorious footage. The guy tailing the cheetah had gotten a great shot through the window of his house. The context hardly mattered here. There was Clawhauser, and though night vision cameras still provided annoyingly blurry pictures even in this day and age, the cheetah was clearly attacking some poor helpless something. It was small, with large ears. Most likely some unfortunate bunny, bat, or bilby, but – whatever, it was definitely a prey animal. Who needed to know more than that, when Clawhauser had fangs bared and claws out?

"Gosh, it's–" Bellwether had to bite her tongue, so she didn't say _beautiful._ "Terrifying? Yes, dreadful! I–I suspected he was hiding his savage ways, but to see it like this… Oh, it's awful…"

The only downside of the shot was that the big, predatory cat wasn't in uniform, as perfect that would have been. He was instead wearing thoroughly unflattering, blue–striped, flannelette pyjamas. And sure, he would have looked much more intimidating in his police clothes, but at the end of the day, recognition was all that really mattered to Bellwether. That creature there on the floor, looking distinctly savage as he lunged towards a big–eared, doe–eyed _victim_ , was Benjamin Clawhauser.

 _Just imagine what'll happen when he gets the serum–!_

Again, she congratulated herself on picking such a fantastic target. There were very few overweight cheetahs in Zootopia, and fewer that could be described by the headline "PREDATOR POLICE OFFICER BRUTALIZES PREY". Or, perhaps, "POLICE OFFICER ON THE PROWL: A SHOCKING EXCLUSIVE"? Or a more simple "ZPD'S DARKEST SECRET REVEALED!", which of course would be followed by a shocking expose on how predator officers did this sort of thing all the time – even the nicest ones, such as Clawhauser. Bogo was trying to cover things up, of course.

Whatever the title, and whatever the content, Bellwether had plenty of excellent writers to put a good, hard spin on the photo. By adding pressure to the buffalo's position now, she could make sure that Clawhauser _was_ the final straw when she had Doug take him out with the serum. She'd have to wait another week for the media to be suitably hyped, of course, but this would absolutely be worth it. One scandal was bad news, but Bogo would _definitely_ have to resign if she hit him twice in as many weeks - leaving a nice vacant position for either one of those brainless rams, or Bellwether herself.

On second thoughts, Bellwether only. If Officer Hopps had been here, then she would definitely have allowed that. But, since she was somewhat sadly, and more annoyingly gone... Well, who would want to trust a brainless ram (who couldn't even get a laboratory together in a few days) with a crack team of armed and trained fighters? Not Dawn Bellwether, that was for sure.

"Hm–? And he didn't show up for work, either? Oh no! He might have run off into the wilderness, and his poor prey… Well, I'll have to report all this right away. Thank you so much, Two Moons! Please let me know if you do sight him again."

The not–so–good mayor put down the phone, now in an _excellent_ mood.

* * *

 **A/N:** Can I write fight scenes? No, no I cannot. But look over there, a shiny new character tag! :0

In other news, I was pretty conflicted about how to run this chapter, and might even go back to change it later-? The Bellwether part got long enough for me to consider splitting the chapter in two, and interestingly enough, I even considered putting the Bellwether half up first. I wound up doing the chapter chronologically, because that's what I did in the first chapter with _that_ Bellwether part, but if my Bellwether sections get any longer, I think I'll have to be splitting chapters and call Bellwether's Not So Helpful Phone Conversations interludes or something. Or just Bellwether's Not So Helpful Phone Conversations, that'd work as well.

Hm.


	5. Van Violence

The first thing Clawhauser heard was rain drumming on metal.

His first thought was something untypeable. There was no reasoning around that sound; no convenient lie to reassure himself that he was still in bed, that everything had just been a really bad dream. He waited a few minutes – or maybe it was hours that Clawhauser lay there, hoping the noise was merely some joker with a hose. He was a pretty hopeful guy, after all. But there was no scuffle, no hushed voices or ghost–like giggles.

Just a steady pitter–patter, slowly and surely… _driving him spare._

Rain simply didn't happen in Sahara Square! Hot and dry was kind of the whole point, and the council members had at least done a good job of making sure that they didn't go off course with it. Clawhauser rolled over, dragging smelly blankets as close to his body as he could, and thought a few more unprintable things when he realized that he couldn't be in the hammock. He hadn't creaked at all, and he hadn't reached the edge, and _oh god_ , did those blankets stink!

Combined, this meant something, of course. Clawhauser wasn't in his own house anymore; all things considered, he wasn't even in Sahara Square. Which was kind of good because he'd hate for his mother to see him like this, and mostly bad, because it meant that Things Really Happened last night. Still, there was some hope; perhaps he'd wound up in the Central District's Hospital? It rained there sometimes. Or – _oooh_ , maybe he was in the Oasis Springs Lodge! That would be rather nice, just so long as Clawhauser was allowed to eat donuts during his stay in the 'natural realm'. He was pretty sure that they would allow donuts, as manufactured as they were. Donuts were just so _good_ , it was almost a sin that they'd had to be invented by civilization…

…then the negativity of the last few weeks came back to him. The worst case scenario slunk along behind the usual sadness and the fear of anything that ate grass, an ugly little beast that chewed at his nerves: What if he was in Rainforest District. To say that Clawhauser hated that hellhole was an understatement about as big as the cheetah himself. It gave him the absolute worst vibe ever; his fur prickled at the humidity alone. Never mind the height, or the terrible things that had been done to him in the back alley behind the dilapidated Okapice Creamery stall, or the way the rickety bridges swung, the wood creaking _under_ instead of _around_ him with every step. And never mind, never, ever think about the fact that the last time Clawhauser had heard Judy report over the radio – all bloodcurdling screaming, something snarling and roaring behind her – she had been in Rainforest District. Running for her life, to be precise… stumbling through a darkness so moist and warm, it _clung…_

"Rise 'n' shine, Baby Fatso! We've got work to do."

"…Ah, creampuffs", Clawhauser mumbled, trying to pull his blankets back around himself and finding only thin air. Anyone could have been prodding him, but a voice that deep could only belong to one animal. One look up confirmed it. The tiny, angry fox might be dressed in a shabby shirt and shorts, and clutching a baseball bat instead of a knife, but it was still a tiny, angry fox. Clawhauser could take a gander as to which of his many, _many_ fennec fox acquaintances (read: one) this guy was.

 _Mister Bad News Burglar, now a catnapper as well as everything else? Great, just great._

"I said get up, fatty. Or I'm shoving this straight down your throat. You can count on that."

The bat had a couple of nails in the end, the cheetah realized. Going off that and the tone, he guessed that he ought to be scared. After all – now he was without blankets, Clawhauser registered that he wasn't wearing his police vest, that nice, comfortable thing, with the padding that might keep a rib from being broken, or his lower intestine from discovering what the floor felt like. Hell, he wasn't even wearing his pajamas – or anything _else._

"Hey! Are you even listening?"

Clawhauser shivered, trying not to go cross–eyed as the weapon was swung about, trying to ignore the threat even though it was really, really threatening. But the cheetah was definitely listening, and he was pretty sure his attacker knew that. How could he not be listening, after all? He was alone. Vulnerable. Naked, and _oh god_ , that really was Rainforest District he could see over the fox's shoulder, dark greens and browns through the van's dirty windscreen, rain pounding against the grime, and – and – man, his instincts were absolutely screaming. Clawhauser needed to get out of this nightmare, and fast.

 _What do you want_ , he tried to snarl, because maybe he could get out, if only the fox told him how to do it. But it came out a whole lot more pathetic, because he realized somewhere in the middle of it that his front paws had been neatly tied up. There was a stammer where there shouldn't have been, and the cheetah ran out of breath somewhere towards the end, panting out the last word even as he tried to ignore the adrenaline rush.

"What… um, wh–what d'ya… uh, er… w–w–want?"

And he was _naked!_ Shame followed the fear so fast, Clawhauser was still shaking and whimpering as he rolled onto his stomach. The fox snickered, though whether that was at the appalling intimidation attempt or at the whole naked thing was anyone's guess. Either way, Clawhauser felt his fur stand on end, tail puffing up a little, and shame piled on top of shame.

"A scaredy–cat, huh?"

"N–no, of course not, never… um, if that's okay, I mean…"

 _How **can** I be scared of you? You're barely bigger than a kit!_

It was ridiculous, and the cheetah knew it – but he _was_ scared. Very, very scared, even though Clawhauser knew that he could stop this criminal just by sitting on him.

The fox rolled its eyes, and came closer still. "Okay, dumbass. Listen up, I'm only gonna say this once." It wasn't that easy to see given the dim light of the van, but at this distance, Clawhauser could pick out the details of how the rust clung to the nails. Brownish, reddish, blackish lumps of dried, crusty _stuff,_ that looked an awful lot like something he shouldn't think about…

"You're a cop. So, you're gonna break me into that asylum place. You know the one, with the timber wolves?"

There was no _could_ there, no _can_. Officer Benjamin Clawhauser was _gonna_ do it, whether he liked it or not, and that was that. He was expected to just shut up and get this ulta–shady guy into the asylum, for… reasons, presumably unsavory. Some sort of prisoner breakout, maybe – Clawhauser kind of doubted that a burglar was secretly visiting a criminal stronghold for some pure, good reason. If the cheetah accepted, there was a very real chance that he'd wind up stripped of his uniform and stuffed in prison, which was about as far away from that dream stay at Oasis Springs as you could get.

On the other paw, he might not have a choice.

"Cliffside? I–I think I'd have access, yes." He tried to scoot away, despite being on his belly with two paws behind his back but his attacker just moved forwards, backing him up against the tattered fabric of a headrest. The guy looked bored, as though he'd done this sort of thing many times before. As though he'd broken into Cliffside many times before, and as though he'd somehow _forced_ those animals to go savage, maybe bribed a bunch of animals, maybe even bribed that other fox to go for Hopp's throat and – no, no, no!

Clawhauser licked dry lips, unwilling to assume the worst just yet. "Why?"

"I want to visit someone."

For two whole seconds, he almost bought that. Come to think of it – it was possible that the fox just wanted to visit some savage loved one, wasn't it? Not even a horrible individual. Just some poor innocent, who had given into their ancient, savage ways – _the instincts embedded in their DNA_ , as Hopps had put it so long ago. They weren't murdering, maiming criminals, even if they had murdered and maimed. They were just _sick,_ that was all, and Clawhauser was sure they'd all get better eventually. They only rubbed shoulders with Actual Bad Animals in the asylum, because the ZPD hadn't been able to find any better facility.

But if that was the case, then… well, couldn't this guy just get a perfectly legal pass? Why go breaking into an officer's house, kidnapping its sole resident, stealing some random pen for no apparent reason while he was at it, then threatening the kidnapped officer with assault? All in order to be illicitly smuggled into a top–security mental illness facility – that he could have just walked straight into, with the right paperwork signed? Clawhauser had approved enough request forms over the last few weeks to know that if this fox did have some relative or other who had gone savage, seeing them was a mere two stamps away.

 _And he hasn't explained the pen… What's that got to do with visiting some relative or other?_

"Yeah, riiiiiiight", the cheetah began – and just like that, he'd said Way Too Much. The fox was quick to let him know this – his bat slammed into Clawhauser's side, knocking the wind out of half his lungs, and making him cough up the other half.

 ** _"Shut up!"_**

But Judy would never have shut up, just because some bully told her to. Bogo would never have shut up, just because some criminal had hit him with a baseball bat. And Gazelle, Gazelle would never, _ever_ shut up. "I–I'm just saying… I'm not going to help you with your breakout, Mister Bad Guy!"

"Breakout?" The burglar stared for a long moment, mouth hanging open – then he began to giggle. He had a very, very nasty sort of laugh, the sort that sent chills right through Clawhauser's body, made him start shivering and stammering all over again. "Man, how the hell d'ya stay so _optimistic…_ Mister Bad Guy? Whaddya think you're in, a cop show?"

Clawhauser bristled at that. "Well, you did kidnap me, like in cop shows. Oh, and I'm an officer! Um, like I said last night?" Last night was a vaguely ugly blur, but he was fairly sure he'd said something like that. "Officer Benjamin Cla–"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. And I'm a master criminal." Here, the bat was flourished inches from Clawhauser's nose. The cheetah guessed it was supposed to be a dismissive gesture, but flinched anyway. He'd already been hit once, and had no interest in being hit again. "You're an 'officer' who couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. I mean, lookit you!" Here, the fox pulled out that dreaded pocket knife, and gave Clawhauser a hard jab in the stomach.

"Aufgh!"

If he hadn't been using the handle, he could have caused some real damage. As it was, Clawhauser had to swallow a scream, and guessed there'd be some bruising tomorrow. "Itty bitty athletic kitty, I think not", the fox sneered, or at least he was pretty sure it was still the fox talking. It was hard to tell, given the rainbow spots dancing in his vision. "Looks like you've restrained more donuts than bad guys."

That hurt, but the cheetah managed to bite back an angry response. For one thing, his aggressor was _right_ , and for another, he seriously needed to keep things on topic if he wanted answers. "Erm, anyway. Lots of questions, so just bear with me." Clawhauser shifted his weight as best he could, trying to look up at the fox. Eye contact was important in any questioning scenario, he knew that much. "If you just wanted to visit someone, then why did you take that pen? Judy or Hopps or whatever, she's not in the asylum, she's– you know. What's she got to do with anything? And, um, why did you take _me?_ You do know that you don't have to be smuggled in or anything, right? Because if you fill out, don't quote me, but I think it's form sixty–two A, then you could visit whoever you liked. Unless you're really a master criminal, and come to think of it, just _who are you–_ "

 ** _Snap._**

Clawhauser went quite still, his brain trying to work out whether or not anything had been broken. It was just the rope getting cut, as it turned out, but the noise had the desired effect; shut him up, let the fox speak as though he'd never been pressed for information at all. "Trust me, fatso. I don't want to work with ya either." The burglar stepped back, and jerked his head to the left, indicating a pile of clothes on the seat next to him. There was a police uniform there, Clawhauser realized, crumpled and rumpled, but still recognizable. "Get dressed, or I'll get the urge to shank you again. Sooner we get this over with, the better it'll be for you. Got that?"

"Hey, no fair! You didn't even answer one of my questions!"

A smirk. "Name's Finnick. That's an answer. Now, get your little cop things on. Or, you know. Fat–sized cop things."

Clawhauser thought about that, reaching for the uniform. The name–badge read OFFICER CLAWHAUSER; the thing must have been taken when his house had been held up. At least it meant that the uniform would fit – it was difficult enough to buy decently made cheetah clothes, let alone anything in his size. "Finnick _who?_ I don't think I've ever heard of a Finnick before."

But the fox only laughed in his face, and waited. Only when the shirt and pants were on did he move, deftly looping the tie about the officer's neck. Before Clawhauser could question what was going on, he'd allowed Finnick to step around behind him to finish with the tie – and _of course,_ that wasn't all the guy was trying to do, and the rough rope was tugging at his paws again. "H–hey! Just what kind of answer's that?!"

"Hey's for horses, fatso", came the reply. Clawhauser tried to pull away, but Finnick was ridiculously fast with knots. Ridiculously tight, too – even as the fox turned and began to make his way to the front of the van, the rope already felt like it was cutting off circulation. "And this is my way of telling you that _maaaaaaybe_ , if you damn well _shut it while I floor it_ , I'll answer another question."

Any further protests were drowned out by the roar of an engine.


	6. Temper Tantrum

"Look, um. Can we just… go over the plan one more time?"

They hadn't really gone over the plan to start off with, of course. Not that Clawhauser was in any position to be scathing, but the fact was, this guy _did_ seem to kind of sort of most definitely suck at explaining things. The answer to _'But **where** in Cliffside are we supposed to go'_ was a total mystery to the cheetah, as was any solution to _'how the hell are you supposed to get in'_ , and though he hadn't bothered with asking _'why are we doing any of this'_ yet, the officer was fairly sure that he could lump it in the same category as every other question.

You see, there was gruff, like Chief Bogo, and then there was so–obnoxiously–gruff–you–just–mumble–everything, and the sulky fox had been the latter for a good part of half an hour. There'd been a couple of vague sentences as they rattled out of the city, and a couple of equally vague gestures, several of which Clawhauser decided were offensive. Then he was somehow expected to have _'got it'_ , got whatever gloriously elaborate plan was going down inside the little fox's head – despite the poor officer having nothing to grab onto. Finnick's 'plan' seemed to lack everything it was supposed to have in spades – details, reasoning, motive, the lot _._

"That's a _question_ , fatso. I said it before, didn't I? I wasn't answerin' questions."

Clawhauser frowned at that, trying to figure out his next line. As much as he wanted to know what exactly he was going to get charged with later down the line, he needed to be careful. And Finnick had his back turned. Technically a good thing, since he was driving and all – but the cheetah couldn't see the face of the guy who was kidnapping him. Clawhauser was left with nothing but vague vibes, trying to analyze minute shifts in those big ears and deep voice.

Not an easy thing.

…Kind of impossible, actually.

"No, it's an organizational thing? Everyone double–checks that everyone else knows the plan."

A snort. "Everyone? Like who, slow fat cats who can't damn well listen the first time round?"

The cheetah waved his paws wildly, thinking fast. There was a distinct threat in the way Finnick had said that; he needed to stammer out an answer as quick as he could, and pray that didn't land him in more trouble. "No, no, I heard the whole thing! It's just, just–"

"Just _what?_ "

And god, Clawhauser had a much better explanation, it was cute and had hedgehogs and picnics in it, but he ditched it all in the name of fear. "– _just_ – you see, if the Chief – Bogo, you know, my boss – was going to break into somewhere – or do anything with a plan to it, actually, _anyway,_ so he'd definitely…" The cheetah trailed off. He'd just made a huge mistake, and didn't need to be looking at the fox's face to know that it had been registered. There was no way he was going to let something like that slide – and from what he'd seen of Finnick so far, the response was going to be violent. There was going to be a big, angry outburst, and the knife would probably be waved around a lot.

But Finnick was silent as they pulled into the abandoned carpark, the one tourists had used before the rainshadow of Tundratown fell over a once sunny, pristine view. Now came the outburst– but _no_ , the fox didn't say a word. Clawhauser held his breath while his captor put the van into parking gear, turned the key, then rummaged around in a filthy glovebox for some CD or other. A few minutes later, and the joyless, thudding strains of _Ram Steiner's Greatest Hits_ echoed about the van. The cheetah could almost have relaxed, if only the lead singer hadn't been screaming about what were presumably very nasty things in another language.

Sixteen tracks followed.

An hour and a half of disturbing shrieks and whispered death threats, Finnick head–banging wildly and expecting him to do the same. This was a form of torture in its own right, but it only got worse from there; the disc held a pause at the end of the sixteenth, a crescendo composed of thumping heart and panicked breaths, stretching into an eternity, maybe this was like how Judy had felt and now his life was going to flash before his eyes and... No. He had to think slowly, clearly. Like… like a sloth. He was a sloth, somehow, and he was going to think very calmly, and rationally, and _nicely_ about this whole sorry–not–sorry–very–nice–actually situation.

Clawhauser inhaled carefully, through his nose, and waited. Maybe Finnick just didn't like his CDs to repeat, maybe the disk was broken, maybe he'd turned the player off himself. Whatever the reason, the van had gone very quiet. Now, the cheetah guessed they'd achieved quieter than very quiet, since his heart was no longer in his throat. There was this terrible silence, and then he realized it: Finnick wasn't even in the van anymore, or at least he couldn't see those big, oversized, vaguely silly ears. All the officer could do was wring his paws and wonder what on earth was going through his captor's head, what on earth would force the whole enigmatic mission to be abandoned, what on earth was going to happen ne–

"Boo."

It was then, _and only then_ , that Finnick leaned over the front seat.

Clawhauser froze mid–wriggle. He even let out an undignified squeak – which was definitely an Acting Scared But Not Really Being Scared thing, and didn't just happen because he couldn't get his paws over his mouth thanks to that stupid rope. Finnick leered at his discomfort, a well–chewed 'Pawpsicle' stick in his mouth. One paw was on the steering wheel, and a knife glinted in the other. There, under the flickering light of the van, was the spitting image of _criminal_. Everything Clawhauser was supposed to hate and go after, summed up in one horrific picture, almost a sepia photograph, its shadows as sharply defined as… well, the awfully sharp–looking blade in Finnick's paw.

Clawhauser took a moment to remember that if he didn't stop monologuing in his head and start listening soon, he was probably going to be found dead in an alleyway.

"Okay, Officer Borehauser," said the fox, eyes lidded, voice oddly sing–song. Maybe he thought it was a soothing way of talking, and he certainly sounded about condescending enough to have been talking to a small child, but the oh–so–obviously–forced calmness just made Clawhauser cringe all the more. His mind whirled towards the worst possible scenarios: Anger bottled up only ever exploded. Finnick had a terrible lid on his temper. And the officer was in a position where a fit of rage from Finnick could result in Very Bad Things.

"Congrats! Today, you're a **_criminal!_** " Finnick went on. Anger flared a little on the word 'criminal', and Clawhauser shrank back just in case. But thank all things holy – the fox managed to continue. The officer had to swallow a sigh of relief at that. As toxic and nasty and generally horrible as Finnick could get, a temper tantrum involving a knife and a tied–up prisoner would have been much worse than a few cross words.

"I can't believe I've gotta spell this out t'ya, but if any of your little police s here about this, _you're gonna be fired_. And, heeeeeeey, y'know what? I might not be all that big or bad myself, but if ya go damning my mission, I'm gonna make sure every paper in town starts callin' ya the Big Cheese Bad Guy. Or– heh! Big Donut Bad Guy. So yeah, you had better have gotten the damn plan. Stuff this up and I'll make sure you're screwed both ways, buddy–cop."

He waited. What for, Clawhauser never did find out – there were a lot of questions about Finnick he'd never get the answers to, that night. All he knew was that whatever the fox was waiting on, it was likely important, since the waiting went on for a very, very long time, tense breaths he hardly dared to take – god, the knife was metres away! He was well out of harm's way. But Finnick had this way of making himself seem huge, and close, like he could whisper in Clawhauser's ear right now, if he wanted to, and the cheetah was duly terrified.

 _"Uh"_ , he managed, after what felt like about ten billion and three years, when Finnick's easy expression finally started to darken and Clawhauser's instincts started to scream – "You kind of look like… You know that coffee ad?"

"Y'seriously think I've got time to sit around watchin' television, buddy–cop?" But the fox was rolling his eyes as he said it. Just for now, it was okay for the cheetah to continue. Clawhauser waited for the 'go on' gesture with the knife, just to be on the safe side, then leaped into a babbled, rushed speech.

"Um, well – it's got a fox in it, I think you'd like it, but – yeah, nope, really not important. What I'm saying is, you look super–tired, aaaaaand the solution to that in the ad was, I'll give you three gues– okay, yeah, I'm moving on, it was _coffee_." And he finally took a breath, one that made him shudder head to foot. " Sooooo, how about we–"

"–wander right into a service station, buy coffee, and then let you quietly hand me in?"

"Yes? I suppose? Maybe? Um. I mean, I'm kind of getting mixed messages, since you're the boss, and you're smiling, and you _did_ just… suggest th–that's... what… we…"

Finnick scowled.

"–ohhhhhnononono _no_ , of course not, of course not, um, no, why would _I_ ever suggest anything like that, I'm much better than that?"

"Damn right you are! Or didn't you listen to one single word I said?! If I go down, you go down with me–"

And the hidden track kicked in around that point. For all the creepy vocals and thrashing guitar, it was still something of a relief, if only because of the ceasefire it enforced. Finnick, apparently unable to resist, went back to what could only be described as the sulkiest air guitar ever witnessed. Clawhauser nodded as though his life depended on it – which it may well have, since the fox still had the knife out and all.

Four minutes later, it all came to a shuddering, ugly stop. The sun was beginning to come up; dappled light and morning dew that'd have been a whole lot more beautiful if it hadn't been preceded by something about corpses. Finnick smiled grimly, hopping out of the van. There was only a moment of peace, then the doors of hell were thrown wide open, and Clawhauser felt something backflip, deep in his gut. This was it. They were seriously going to do something, and it was definitely not something legal, and this was his last chance not to be involved, only he really, _really_ did not have a choice.

"All right, fatso. You don't like me. I don't like you. But we're on a schedule, so you'd better just remember what I said."

"Which was? I–I mean, you said, ah - a lot? A lot! Lots and lots."

The fox rolled his eyes. "All right. Smuggle me in there, do what I tell you, don't stuff it up, don't ask questions, you're not getting the pen back. And if I go down, _you're dead._ "

Clawhauser was sure he hadn't said about five of those things earlier, but– hey, no questions. If he didn't want to incur Finnick's wrath after so much avoiding it, what else could he do but nod and hold his tied paws out? What else could he do but let the tiny fox scramble up under his jacket, and hang on under there, cold knife against shivering skin, unprintable words every time he moved too suddenly? What else could he do but walk straight into a mental asylum full of Dangerous Individuals, and say whatever a certain muffled voice near his stomach told him to?

Drop dead?

Was that the only real way out of this hell?

"Repeat after me: ' _Hello, I want to see...'_ "

The cheetah was on the task instantly, because waiting for Finnick to finish the speech meant an uncomfortable pause, which had made Finnick very cross a few minutes ago, when they were talking to the giant buff security guys earlier. He carefully parroted the fox's words, listening out for the next even as he spoke. A mistake could cost him. "Hell–o. I–want–to–see–Mister–Wilde–pleas– wait, whaaaaaa...?" The cheetah nearly glanced downwards, but a warning poke stopped him. He frowned. "Sorry! I mean – I double taked just then, because _whooooaaaaaaa,_ I totally thought he was moved. So I was just like 'wait, what', only it was at me! Anyway, can I see him?"

 _Great, I'm being held hostage by some mad fox that wants my collegue's killer set free_ , the cheetah thought, but thankfully said none of it.

"If you're seriously with the ZPD, you ought to already know that all the savage animals are still here. I mean, you're supposed to be the high–paid, smart guys." The secretary – a red panda – adjusted her glasses, laid her newspaper on the desk, and folded her arms with a snarl. Unlike her companions out front, she was pretty scrawny; Clawhauser guessed that anyone who'd made it this far didn't really need to be jumped on by security. "Oh, and that Wilde guy killed someone. I'm going to have to check your ID."

"Officer Benjamin Clawhauser?" He patted at his jacket pocket. "Hm, um. I _think_ my card's in my breast pocket, or – oh, so that's my breakfast pocket! Er, perhaps my other breast pocket? Or you could radio Chief Bogo, he could confirm that I'm me."

"The... that guy–? No. _No._ " The cheetah blinked, looking down at her, and found her to be shaking where she stood, eyes wide. "U–u–um! I mean… Oh no, it's going to be f–fine… P–please don't… Mister Nick Wilde is o–on the second f–floor, ah, l–liftrightthere, n–number, twelve, haveanicedayandpleasepleasepleasedon'thurtme…"

And she slowly sank below her desk, snatching her newspaper on the way down. Clawhauser would most definitely have questioned that, or at the very least stopped to try and help the poor thing, since she looked utterly terrified. But Finnick was jabbing him again, whispering things about how they didn't have much time, and was he interested in being gutted after all?

"C'mon, let's go already! Repeat after me: _'Okay, thanks bye.'_ "

"Okay–thanks– for your help. Really appreciated, you know", he said, leaning over the desk to give the red panda one of his trademark smiles. Even though he was trying to smuggle a goddamned burglar into the place, and even though the aforementioned criminal was threatening to shank him for going off script, there was enough adrenaline and experience in it that the expression almost felt authentic. Of course, these things could always be improved on, and... okay, so in this case, the whole sorry attempt would have worked out a ton lot better had his target been, you know, _looking_ at him. As it was, she just whimpered something unintelligible and curled up. It chewed on Clawhauser's heartstrings. He would have to stop by later, and apologize profusely for either scaring her or triggering a giant crush.

But for now, all he could do was wave, walk over to the lift, and wait.


	7. taptaptap (interlude)

_tap, tap, tap-_

Eight–thirty in the morning. Much too early. "Mayor! B! Mayor! B! A–a, a–an, an, emergency, call!"

 _tap, tap, tap!_

The panting, the _Mayor B_ issue, the fact that every sentence came between gasps of air – there could only be one animal at the door. In one fluid motion, Bellwether glared, sighed, rolled over, and pressed a button on her bedside table. She was getting quite good at that; Jean hadn't been employed long, but this was his third interruption in as many hours. The sheep eyed up the now–open doors, confirming that it really was The Idiot before she bothered sitting up in bed. "What a... _lovely..._ surprise. I–I hope it is importaaant?"

 _Note to self: If he starts going on about that stupid Junior Ranger Scouts collection drive again, **he's next.**_

Jean Bobtail – an unfortunate surname for a very unfortunate jaguar – stumbled through the door. "Yep, it's, very, worrying, miss", he panted out, then leaned against her lovely little dressing table, just about tipping it over as he searched his pockets for an inhaler. Predator _and_ disabled, technically –two vote categories in one, plus he was much too dumb to ever realize what she was up to. That said, the sheep was starting to wonder whether the brilliant idea to make this guy her secretary had been quite so brilliant. After all, he left a mark on the table when he straightened, his chest still heaving and sweat pouring from the too–tight collar of his suit.

"Th–there is a call? For you. From the asylum. And, it's... _b_ – _bad_ , Mayor B."

"Don't call me that", Bellwether grumbled, leaning dangerously close to the stench of Sweaty Big Cat in order to take the proffered phone. He was shaking so badly, he dropped it onto the covers as she reached out, earning himself a glare.

"S–sorry, Miss Mayor B–b–buuhhhhh–"

"Miss Bellwether?", she prompted. Jean took that as a correction, nodding weakly instead of kowtowing and apologizing as he really should have; it was all the mayor could do not to scream for security. She looked at the phone instead.

 _Stupid_ Cliffside Asylum. Stupid bloody secretary, thinking anything about that dumb, predator–infested place was worth a damn. Who cared if the inmates had started eating each other? They'd done their bit, they'd terrified the public, and she had some nice shots of their muzzled mugs to show the public while she waited for the next bloodbath. "Hello? Y–yes, Daaaawn Bellwether. Is everything quite all right–?"

She waited. It was annoying, having to wait while whoever was on the other end of the line stammered and whispered, unable to hurry them because – heeeeyyyy, Jean was still in the room. In fact, he was inches from her bed, despite knowing there was someone from the top–security, super–secret–up–to–a–few–weeks–ago _prison_ on the other end of the line. The moron just didn't seem to understand confidentiality or disapproving looks. Hell – Bellwether could have been wearing a large hooded cape and hissing commands into a walkie–talkie, and Jean might well have done nothing but stand there and... breathe.

 _Heavily._

Not a fun experience – for the first time in days, Bellwether couldn't grin, even though the news was brilliant. Clawhauser had been _caught!_ She had an excuse to simultaneously make Bogo look terrible and keep tabs on the cheetah until the serum was ready! She could milk this for all it was worth, perhaps yank Bogo's chain by talking him into going easy on Clawhauser, letting him out for community service – then _bam_ , multiple deaths with Bogo's name all over them. Oh god, he might even wind up in jail for that, and Bellwether could give such an incredible speech on how happy she was to be taking charge of the ZPD. But no, no, she wasn't allowed to fantasize about any of it, because she couldn't be seen smiling by some filthy predator. _Ugh._

"Y–yes, of course–! Um, as the article says, I definitely think he may be savage! Definitely initiate a full lockdown – t–to be safe, of course! Yes, very likely to be acting normal. Definitely not normal! Once he has been contained, I will be there in person to check on him. He's quite high-profile in the ZPD. I wouldn't want to ruin anyone's reputation!"

Both Jean's eyebrows and the voice on the phone rose in worry, but Bellwether was the _mayor_. A few well–placed words would put them both at ease. "No, it's no problem! Really! I–I really just want to make sure that everyone stays safe. Those predators can be so nasty, especially a big, strong, police–trained cheetah like him! Anyway, I'll be there in ten minutes. Lockdown, remember? Good."

…Well, one of them anyway. The _important_ one. The _not–necessarily–stupid_ one, who she didn't particularly want to offend, just in case. Jean's eyebrows were furrowed, and he wasn't moving to get the car or breakfast organized, but amazingly enough, he was still managing something like a clueless silence. For once, his low intelligence was actually kind of useful here.

"Jean, didn't you hear?" she tutted, dragging herself out of bed. "There is a savage animal loose in the Cliffside facility. I will need a _car_ , and _coffee_ , and a _chauffeur_."

He didn't move.

"Chop–chop!"

One paw went up in the sort of gesture she'd always thought was left behind in classrooms. It didn't ease Bellwether's mind, even if it was movement. He must have a _question._ Had she actually managed to offend the idiot? Had she gotten too carried away? How was she supposed to fix this, if he had finally realized it? Was she really okay with wasting an entire precious serum on an asthmatic jaguar with all the ferocity of a seven–year–old goldfish?

"Um. Mayor B?"

Oh god. Jean had a question, and it presumably didn't involve the location of the car, coffee, or chauffer. His eyes searched her face, looking for something there – trust, perhaps, or confidence, or maybe just general niceness. Overall, _oh god._ Bellwether folded her hooves, then remembered to clasp daintily, and smile. "My name is Miss Bellwether. And, um – I don't know if you noticed, but this is an emergency. There is a loose, savage animal, in one of my very own facilities! As mayor, I absolutely must make sure everything is–"

"Y–yeah, yeah, but I was just kinda wondering. About something you said?"

And he interrupted! He _dared_ to interrupt! Bellwether had to bite her tongue; Jean had just committed the worst possible offence, and she wasn't allowed to be angry. Maybe he was cunning, in a particularly stupid sort of way–?

No. That _couldn't_ be right. She almost felt cornered, like Jean was almost a threat, but that was just because of the situation. In the blink of an eye, she had a mental checklist of everything that could trigger vulnerability, and yes, there were more than a few boxes that applied here. She'd barely woken up, was still in her dressing gown, had just received news that made her feel strongly – and now she was expected to explain her entire made–up moral code to Jean. Without _coffee._ Yes, it was all situational. It had to be. It was just natural for sheep close to their goals to feel a little paranoid; what little remained of their herd instincts.

 _But… what if…_

"If that's okay. I mean."

God, how Bellwether wanted to tell that stupid great lump of fur and bones and awkward raspy breathing to just shut up. How she wanted to order three batches of serum and shoot him until he died of overdose – but she couldn't. It was too early to even have him fired. Animals might suspect, and Bellwether just couldn't take any risk to her reputation when she was so, so close…

This was going to be a tough one.

"What is it, Jean?"

"O–oh, I was just thinking." ( _That's an achievement_ , Bellwether added silently.) "Um, 'cos you said he was a cheetah? From the ZPD? I read an article about one that went mad, and attacked, and you even said he might… be…"

"Yes, I'm pretty, really, definitely sure I remember the interviews I've given."

And Bellwether tried for her most withering look, but the relieved smile ruined the attempt.

* * *

 **A/N:** Had to take a break because of exams and all, and didn't want to jump /right/ into the thick of things straight away. We'll return to Clawhauser and Finnick next time, but I did feel like my Bellwether needed a bit of work, so.


End file.
